


The Naked Museum

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Accidental Love Letter to my City, Established Relationship, M/M, No Smut, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 08:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11505153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: When the job stalls and Arthur’s bored beyond the point of distraction, Eames takes matters into his own hands.  How does he entertain Arthur, you ask?  Two tickets to The Naked Museum, naturally.





	The Naked Museum

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever Bingo fic, for the trope prompt: Journey. I wanted to try something a little fluffy, a little understated. Hope it satisfies anyway!
> 
> Thanks to [brookebond](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond) for her beta!

The job had been stalled for over a week. That meant ten days of sitting in Toronto with shit-all to do, trying not to die of boredom. 

Arthur sighed and looked around the already clean workshop where they’d set up, and tried to ignore Eames playing the online gambling app he’d downloaded that he thought Arthur didn’t know about. 

“Eames,” he said, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Mmm,” came the grunt which said Eames wasn’t really listening.

“How long do you think this is going to take?” Arthur had already had three cups of coffee, any more and his eyeballs were going to start to shake.

“You’ve asked me that already, pet, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told you last time,” Eames said, head still buried in his phone. “It could be a day, it could be ten. All I know is it won’t be today.”

Arthur refused to groan, or kick the desk, or stomp around. Their simple, two-man job had been going so well. Eames was running the extraction and the forgery of the mark’s mother, which was damn good, even if Arthur wasn’t going to admit it, and Arthur was running point. He also, to his secret delight, was getting to build on this one. 

He didn’t get to play architect often but he loved the symmetry of building, the cathartic sense of creation. He adored the precision required for the paradoxes he hid everywhere, and on small stuff like this, it didn’t matter how many architectural flourishes he put in. Yusuf had sent the Somnacin already, a standard weight without anything fancy, and he’d sent plenty, so Arthur hadn’t even felt guilty about going under and using extra time to perfect the office building he had created.

Except now they were stuck waiting, and it, frankly, sucked. They went and saw a movie. Then another. They’d eaten out, but not a lot because they didn’t need to be remembered. They’d taken turns buying things from the corner store, and they’d had sex three times a day. And Arthur was fucking bored. He eyed Eames manspreading in his chair and considered four times a day, but dismissed it. What would they do after lunch, then? Better to pace himself.

What he wanted was to go home. He wanted to unpack his bag in their Paris apartment, open the doors to the balcony, and breathe. He wanted to take a nap in his favorite chair. He wanted to drink tea out of his own cups and watch Netflix on his own couch. He wanted to meet up with their friends and go dancing at their club and get the fuck out of Toronto. 

“Done!” Eames announced, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

Arthur frowned. “Done? Done with what?”

Eames ignored him. “Well, come on, then. Get your coat.”

Arthur didn’t stop frowning, but he didn’t disobey either. Eames bounced out the door ahead of him, his smile under the scruffy beard he’d been cultivating making Arthur thaw. If Eames wanted to surprise him, he was more than open to that. It definitely beat sitting around here.

There was an Uber waiting for them outside the warehouse, which Arthur didn’t love, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to tell Eames how to stay under the radar. When he climbed in the back, Eames held his hand like it was something they did in the back of Ubers all the time, and okay, yes, sex three times a day (maybe four), but holding hands in public wasn’t something they did, especially not on a job. Arthur left his hand there.

When they pulled up at the airport, Arthur’s heart started to kick. He raised an eyebrow at Eames, but he just smirked in return. He dragged Arthur inside and picked up the tickets at the kiosk, shielding the screen with his body and tucking them in his pocket before Arthur could see them.

“Eames. Where are we going?” Arthur could feel the start of a smile, because Eames knew. He knew Arthur wanted to go home, and he’d bought tickets for them, and God, he loved this man. Definitely four times. On their own bed. Arthur could feel his whole body relax at the thought of sleeping in his own bed.

“It’s a surprise, darling,” Eames said and Arthur slipped his hand back in Eames’ as they headed toward the gate. Eames followed him through the scanners, pulled both of their passports out of his jacket pocket, which Arthur hadn’t realized he’d lifted from him, and ushered him straight to the line waiting to board. He’d timed this startlingly well. Arthur was impressed.

“No bags today?” the cheery woman asked as she took Eames’ tickets. 

“Not today, love,” Eames grinned at her as she glanced at them and handed them back. 

“Enjoy Omaha, gentlemen!” she chirped before she focused her attention on the people in line behind them.

Arthur blinked. “Omaha?”

Eames’ annoyance smoothed off his face like it had never been there. “Yes, pet.” He put his hand on the small of Arthur’s back, leading him forward in his daze.

“Like, Omaha, Nebraska?” Arthur was sure he’d misheard.

“Yes, pet.”

Arthur stopped cold in the little walkway to the plane, the air whistling through the cracks. “I thought we were going home, Eames. I don’t want to go to Omaha. What the fuck is in Omaha?”

Eames’ smile was strained. “It’s a surprise.”

Arthur knew he was scowling, but the thread of genuine annoyance that was lacing Eames’ words made him bite his tongue. 

Someone cleared their throat behind him and Arthur let himself be led forward onto the plane, took his seat which was blessedly in first class, and ordered a drink immediately. He simmered but let the alcohol work its magic before turning to Eames. “I apologize, Eames. I know you went to a lot of work to set this up. I just assumed… well, I apologize.”

Eames smiled at him, the indulgent, smug smile of a man who knew when Arthur was apologizing while gritting his teeth internally. The dick.

“Apology accepted, Arthur.” 

Then he leaned toward the window, because Eames was essentially a two-year-old, and he loved flying. Arthur watched him look out the window, his eyes tracking the clouds with excitement. Arthur sighed and tried to be excited with him. Eames wouldn’t drag him to something horrible, probably. They watched a movie and ate the in-flight meal, and he tried not to remember the time Eames had taken him to a questionable strip club for his birthday.

“Why would I want to see this?”

“Why wouldn’t you?! Plus, you can bring your own alcohol, Arthur, it’s very economical. I know how you like that.”

Or the weekend he signed them up for a tour of a potato chip factory.

“Why would I want to see this?”

“It’s educational! Haven’t you always wanted to know?” 

Or to Dave and Buster’s, after promising Arthur a fancy and exciting dinner experience, which he’d naturally assumed would be something at a theatre. 

“Why would I want to see this?”

“Games, Arthur! Look at them all!”

Eames had been a ray of light on each trip, thrilled to see everything, asking questions and joking with the strangers around them, and having a fantastic time. He’d dragged Arthur into having a good time also. But Eames was the adventurous one. Eames was the one with the ideas. He’d also taken them on a motorcycle excursion in Rio de Janeiro. And hiking the Inca trail in Peru. And trips to the black sand beaches in Iceland. 

They’d taken advantage of Saito’s airline at every opportunity, both for work and pleasure, and Arthur realized what an ass he was being. Eames had drug his wet blanket self all over the globe, and he’d ended up enjoying himself every time. And now he was throwing a fit because he’d had an idea in his head that turned out to be wrong. 

He pulled out one of his ear buds. “Eames.”

“Mmm,” Eames hummed, two steps from falling asleep.

“What is in Omaha? Seriously. And if you say, ‘a surprise’ I’m going to gut you and make you wear your intestines as a tie.”

Eames’ lips might have twitched before he yawned. “A car.”

Arthur pulled out the other ear bud. “A car.” He turned to face Eames fully. “Any particular car?”

“Mmm, no. Just a rental car.”

Arthur watched him. Eames’ eyes were closed, his head was back against the headrest, apparently unconcerned with wearing his internal organs as accessories. “So where are we actually going?”

Eames licked his lips. “Lincoln.”

“Nebraska,” Arthur clarified.

“Mmm.”

Arthur sighed. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s in Lincoln?”

Eames’ lips definitely twitched that time. “A surprise.”

But his eyes were closed and in a few seconds his breathing evened out. Arthur watched the creases on his forehead soften. He resisted the impulse to rub his thumb over them. Fucking dick.

The rental car was the new Challenger and Eames let Arthur drive, so that was alright. The drive was 45 minutes of boring flatness that he would never remember, Eames looking at his phone and pointing out exits and turns, until they slid into a parking spot on a quiet downtown street. 

“Well, Eames, we’re here. At,” he checked his watch, “2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon in the booming metropolis of Lincoln, Nebraska. Now. What the actual fuck.”

Eames grinned like the two-year old he was and bounded out of the car. “Come on!”

They walked across a college campus, trees everywhere. “There,” Eames pointed.

“Sheldon Museum of Art,” Arthur read from the wooden sign. He looked at the squat white building. “You flew me halfway across a continent to see an art gallery? They have those in Toronto you know.” He let the “and Paris” slide, because he was semi-curious, and because Eames was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Not just an art gallery, darling,” Eames said, tugging him forward. “The Naked Museum.”

“Wait… what?”

Eames turned back to him, Eamesian leer and eyebrow waggle in place, but Arthur was genuinely annoyed now. 

“Why in the world would I want to see that?” he asked, because this was not an Incan hiking trail, and this was definitely not Icelandic beaches. This wasn’t even strippers.

But Eames just laughed and grabbed his hand again, so apparently that was something they were doing now. In the Midwest. Arthur hoped they didn’t get shot.

They climbed the stairs to the building, “The Naked Museum” sign proudly displayed and Arthur braced himself for staring at impractically perfect boobs and flaccid penises made of marble and whatever else hicks thought naked art might entail for the rest of the afternoon.

Except that when they went in, the building was… empty. There was a striking and minimalistic marble staircase that split the main lobby and led to, Arthur assumed, left and right wing galleries, but there was no… art.

He furrowed his brow and glanced at Eames, who looked like someone who’d picked out a present that the recipient was finally going to open. 

There was a small front desk with a ridiculously friendly front desk worker with a septum peircing who handed them a brochure and made them sign the guest book. 

Arthur arched an eyebrow when they were out of earshot. “Phillip and John Smith? From Dublin?” 

Eames winked at him. 

They wandered to the galleries, which were also empty. 

“Okay, I give up, Eames. What are we doing here?” 

Eames handed him the brochure and found a bench while Arthur looked at it. 

“The Naked Museum exhibit,” Arthur read out loud. “For a limited time, come view the Sheldon Art Gallery without the distraction of art. Use this unique opportunity to study the works of Phillip Johnson, designer and creator of The Sheldon building, and help us celebrate architecture…” he looked at Eames, “... as art.”

Eames smiled at him, not the exuberant smile of a two-year old with an impending birthday party, but the soft, quiet smile of Sunday mornings and shared histories.

Arthur felt his throat tighten and, to his infinite embarrassment, when he tried to smile back, it felt a bit wobbly. 

Eames was on his feet instantly, wrapping Arthur firmly in his arms, his lips making small noises into Arthur's temple. 

“I'm sorry,” Arthur muttered into Eames’ shoulder. “I should have trusted you. I _do_ trust you. I trust you with my _life_ , I don’t know why I can’t just—”

“Shhh,” Eames murmured, “shh. Apology accepted, darling.”

And this time, they both meant it. 

“Come on, let’s take a look, shall we?”

So they wandered around, Eames pointing out the brass ceiling accents, Arthur the sweeping lines of the galleries leading into the Great Hall. Arthur felt himself smiling and laughing along with Eames, their voices bouncing along with the scant other patrons in the space. Arthur was caught up in the beauty of the small building, enraptured with the elegant passageways, the flow of the rooms. He turned to Eames.

“Eames, look at the doorways! They blend into the— what?”

Eames was looking at him and not the doorways, which really were beautiful, and his eyes were soft and fond. He tipped his forehead against Arthur’s and they stood there, in the mellow light and echo-y space, and Arthur knew how lucky he was. 

They stopped by the smaller side gallery Arthur hadn’t noticed, which held the original blueprints, models, and photos of the construction. Then they strolled around outside to see the Italian marble with its graceful arches and wandered through the sculpture garden. When they re-entered the building, the front desk worker greeted them like they were old friends.

“Hello again!”

“Hello, love,” Eames schmoozed, tucking a folded bill under their sketchbook and turning up his accent. “We’re just in town for this afternoon, and I wanted to ask you.” He turned and looked at Arthur. “If you were dating this gorgeous man, where would you take him in your lovely town?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets to give them something to do.

The front desk worker popped the bill into the donation box and turned an amused glance on Arthur as well. “Hmmm,” they said, turning to a blank page. In the space of thirty seconds, they had drawn a minimalist sketch of Arthur, the clean lines of his suit, his hands in his pockets, the tilt of his indignant chin. “For him, The Post and Nickel.” They jotted an address and directions on the back of the sketch. “For you,” they said, giving Eames a cheeky once-over, “Ruby Begonia’s. Tell them Claire sent you.” Claire jotted some more. “For both of you, The Dairy Store.” 

Claire ripped the page out of the book and handed it to Eames with a flourish. “Not sure how long you’re staying, but if you stick around until suppertime, it’s Jazz in June tonight. Come see the show.”

“Aren’t you a wonder!” Eames grinned. “Thank you.”

Claire grinned back, gave Arthur a happy wink, and went back to their sketchbook. Eames led the way out and flipped over the sketch Arthur knew would be framed and hung in their bedroom as soon as they got back. 

“It’s just a few blocks, darling,” he said. “Shall we?”

Arthur shrugged, an easy smile tugging at his lips. “I trust you.”

The Post and Nickel turned out to be a clothing store, and Eames bought Arthur a very serviceable suit for a ridiculously small amount of money. Ruby Begonia’s was also a clothing store, but it was vintage second-hand stuff, and the clerks, thrilled to help friends of Claire’s, dove into racks of clothes and unearthed multiple things in Eames’ size. Arthur bought Eames a maroon shirt with small yellow flowers for a ridiculously large amount of money, at least for something which had been worn by someone else already. Eames just smiled and smacked a kiss to his cheek.

The Dairy Store turned out to be an ice-cream store on campus, where the ice-cream was made on site and the university students behind the counter foisted free sample after free sample on both of them until Arthur was sure he wouldn’t be able to eat a full cone. But his eyelids fluttered shut at the first taste of Scarlet & Cream, and he could see Eames doing the same. The workers smiled knowingly and were happy to ring them up and give them directions to the outdoor area set aside for Jazz in June. 

Arthur leaned back against Eames, eating his ice-cream and standing in the grass, letting the music roll over him and shaking his head at himself for doubting Eames. The young family next to them insisted on sharing the extra blanket they brought, so Arthur and Eames sat down beside them as the couple’s daughter wandered between all the attendees, collecting oohs and awws from each of them. 

When the evening was over, Arthur felt a warm glow settle in his limbs. “This was nice,” Arthur said to Eames. “Really nice. Thank you.”

Eames laced their fingers together and brought Arthur’s hand to his lips for a kiss. “You’re more than welcome, darling.”

Arthur grinned, his dimples probably on full display. “What’s next?”

Eames’s two-year-old’s smile took over his face. “Well! We have two options. We can catch the next flight to Paris, _orrrrrrr_ there is a two-day-long cowboy camp that starts tomorrow in South Dakota.”

Arthur froze, his cringe already in place before he could stop it. “I… trust you?”

Eames laughed and laughed and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> The Naked Museum really was an exhibit that was featured at The Sheldon Museum of Art in Lincoln, NE several years ago. It was interesting and eye-opening, at least for me, as someone who’d never really looked at architecture that way before. And I thought… you know who else loves a beautiful combination of art and architecture? These two assholes. :D
> 
>  


End file.
